Katherine was dressed in what looked like business attire, a form-fitting gray jacket with a light blue scoop-necked shell underneath and a string of small black beads around her neck. Her hair was pulled back and her eyes were pink and a bit puffy around the edges, as though she’d been crying but had tried to hide the damage with another application of makeup.
So much for these damned implants being foolproof. I was really hoping it was just a stomach bug I’d picked up on the mission to Boston last week. One hundred and sixteen days—which would mean it happened after the New Year’s Eve party.
And now—I don’t even know if I want to tell Saul. He lied about the Boston trip. That wasn’t just a whim, and it wasn’t the only time he’s spoken at the meetings. I think he’s using a different name and maybe that’s why the CHRONOS computer checks haven’t caught any anomalies. But I spent this morning in the library—near the bathrooms in case the nausea hit me again—and I found several references that have me worried.
There are some scattered mentions of a traveling minister named Cyrus in the late 1800s and an entire article in something called the American Journal of Prophecy from September 1915 on how, at a small church somewhere between Dayton and Xenia, Ohio, this Cyrus predicted the Dayton Flood of 1913 in vivid detail—nearly forty years before the actual flood. He even pointed to a boy in the congregation and predicted that his home would be destroyed and that they would find a pig floating down the city street in his automobile. In 1877, no one was quite sure what an automobile was, but the comment was documented in an editorial in the local paper, and sure enough Danny Barnes found a pig sitting in his Model T as it floated away down a city street after the 1913 flood.
And the article talks about the rumors of miracles—dozens of healings that Brother Cyrus supposedly performed in the Midwest. Tumors. Pneumonia. Arthritis.
This isn’t my specialty, but you don’t live and travel with a religious historian for nearly three years without picking up the gist of it. I’ve heard Saul mention Sister Aimee, Father Coughlin, and dozens of others—but nothing about this guy Cyrus. And I doubt it is a coincidence that the dates when Brother Cyrus visited these towns sync up perfectly with several of Saul’s jumps.
Brother Cyrus is Saul. I’m positive. This is all wrapped up with that lunatic Campbell and the others at his club.
And I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that Cyrus is the name of Campbell’s damned dog—that gassy old Doberman who snarls and snaps at anyone who comes close.
Katherine took a swig of something from a pale blue bottle labeled Vi-Na-Tality. She grimaced as though it was sour and then rubbed her eyes, slightly smearing her makeup, before she looked back at the camera.
I have to tell Angelo. I don’t have any choice. My only question is whether to talk to Saul first—to try to reason with him. Maybe if he knows I’m pregnant—maybe he’ll realize this isn’t a game, that our lives and careers shouldn’t be jeopardized due to some academic wager with Campbell. Saul loves kids—I think he’ll be happy. And then if we go to Angelo together…
She shook her head and sighed.
They are going to kick him out of CHRONOS. I can’t see any way out of that. But maybe if he tells them everything, they’ll let me stay—even if we’re together. And at least one of us will have a decent job—he could stay with the baby or maybe they’d just let him do background research.
She massaged her temples briefly and closed her eyes.
He’ll be home soon. He’s been with Campbell and his other idiot friends all day. I’m scheduled for a solo jump tomorrow morning at nine. I’m going to try to talk to Saul tonight, and then with him or without him, I’m going to talk to Angelo tomorrow.
If it wasn’t for the baby, I’d say to hell with him. But if Saul ends up on a labor farm, this kid isn’t going to see much of his—or her—daddy. And maybe things will go okay… there’s so much good in Saul. I just can’t believe that he’d…
A deep sigh and then Katherine leaned forward to stop the recording.
A gentle rain had begun outside while I watched the April 26th entry, and I heard a light pawing at the screen door. The earpiece brought in the sound from the journal so clearly that almost all background noise was canceled out. Judging from the reproachful look that Daphne gave me, she had been scratching at the door for a while. I was repaid for my negligence with a secondhand shower as Daphne shook vigorously to rid herself of the rain that had collected on her auburn coat.